Stalk Me Not
by Arandomchan
Summary: AU, BL. Kurogane meets Fye. Stalking ensues. hiatus?
1. Prologue

**Notes**: Yep. I use Fyu's name ONCE. And I use it like THAT. So suck it up. I like y's. Other than that... the main character is easy to guess. :) Yep. Woo, drugs!

**Summary**: This is AU. Kurogane and Fye meet at college. Uh, if I continue this, Fye's gonna... pseudo-stalk Kurogane.

**Pairings**: Slight Kurogane and Fye.

**Rating**: T, for language, some sexual reference, drug reference, the beating, mangling, and defecating of Shakespeare and/or archaic prose, and attempted hugs.

**Disclaimer**: God has led me astray.

**Stalk Me Not**

I'd seen him around school. A few times, here and there, but I recognized him, each and every time I laid eyes upon him. With a smiling face and heavy lidded eyes like that, it was easy to spot him in a crowd; and with his tall, willowy form and blond hair, it was easy to recognize him from across the courtyard. He just stood out like that. Against the backdrop that was everyone else, he shone brightly.

And he was the biggest druggy around.

I only had a vague (read: biased) idea about what exactly it was he did. The word was anything from LSD to Marijuana to Speed. Mixing all that together... well, even I knew that was one of the dumbest, most self-destructive things one could do. You had to be really stupid, or really masochistic to pull a stunt such as that. Or you had to be really desperate.

But, then again, that was only what I'd heard about him. The amount of gossip about him and the utter bullshit of it all was closely related. (Read: no one knew crap, and so rampant lies charged naked and unashamedly through the ranks of the undead college students who had nothing **better** to do than a little guesswork about everyone's favorite enigma.) He was a popular subject at lunch, all the same.

That was probably why I had, after calmly giving my eating companions the finger, taken my food and myself outside and away from anyone who felt the need to make up another flamingly **gay** lie about someone they had never even fecking **spoken** to. My head doth wanna go splodey.

And that, my friends (read: wankers), was what brought me outside and under this huge fecking tree of which I was slightly wary. And I had every friggin right to be. The thing was this humungous monster of a plant, devoid of all leaves. The trunk itself scared the crap out of me. I mean, I'm pretty tall. I've got long arms. If I went up to this tree and tried to hug it, it would be like spreading my arms against a wall. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. There **was** a slight curve. It served to remind me "okay, this thing **is** round... so it **is** a tree." But I'm not a tree hugger. I'm not a hippy. So shove off, I'm not going to give into your sick fantasy and hump a plant that's older than I am. Or one that's younger. In fact, I'm not gonna hump a plant, period.

...I don't think I was the only student who thought that, with its straining, reaching limbs, near black bark and general presence, it was going to eat me. Death by man-eating tree. Well, at least my name'll get in the papers, albeit 'deceased' will be tagged to the end. Or something like that.

Fuck, but I hate this tree.

So, I had no idea why the hell I decided to eat **there** of all places. I'd like to blame the expiration date on my water. WHY there was an expiration date on my water, I'll never know, but I blame it all the same. Fecking water.

I was about halfway finished when someone actually dared approach me. Danger, danger, Will Robinson! Take out teh lazars!

"Hey!" And when I looked up, there he was. The man behind the name I'd wanted to **escape**. Just for once. I'd say "Is that too much to ask?" but it would be moot. Completely moot. So instead of whining inside or flying into a rage or anything else, I just stared at him. Blankly.

And he...?

Well, he obviously didn't seem to mind as he took a seat right next to me. Smiling. And I swear, for once he didn't seem so lucid.

For a moment, he didn't say anything, and in accord, neither did I. Not that I had planned to say anything, anyway. I didn't really have... anything TO say. So, instead, slowly, I began to eat again, and ignored him.

Until...

"Ah. I know this is... weird. And maybe rude. And, well... could I borrow about seventy cents?"

Borrow? (Read: **have**.)

And he was right, for the most part. That was an odd request. Seventy cents? For what? I thought about this, mulled it over and over in my mind. I looked at it from every angle, and sifted through every possibili-

"No."

Ah, well, I guess that was that. Now leave meh alone.

He made a strange noise, like a soft keen, and it startled me, making me blink. What the fu...?

"That's mean." He near-cooed, in a soft voice. I could hear a pout in it. But at the same time, I could hear his damn smile.

I grunted. Then, I growled, "No, it's not. You interrupted my lunch. **That's** mean."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him; and he **did** pout. But, then he replaced it with a smile. Again.

"You looked lonely."

"I wasn't."

And I wasn't. I was fucking **creeped out** was what I was. I mean... fuck. How the hell had this tree stayed **alive** this long?

"Oh? Well... would you like to know what else I thought?"

Oh, god.

"No. But you're going to tell me, anyway."

He seemed to perk up a little. "Exactly!"

Guh. Pity me, ye Gods, for I am not gonna get outta this one. Not unless I kill him.

That... sounds like a good idea.

"I thought you looked lonely; I also thought you looked like you needed a hug."

Then he made as if to lean in and wrap his arms around me and I quickly abandoned my food in favor of scuttling sideways and out of reach. But damn, did he have long arms. Even after I evaded him, he continued to smile.

Holy Flying Banana Monkeys, the guy was effing loopy.

"You know you want it," he near-cooed once more, and this time he seemed to sing it a little.

"No. I most certainly do not. Keep yer paws off me."

He smiled. And it looked like he was going to try again. So I dug out a dollar bill from my pocket and threw it at him.

"Here! Now leave me alone!"

And I was struck by how much he should have been wearing one of those T-shirts - the ones that say things like "Give me a dollar and I'll leave you alone."

He brought the money up and pulled from either side, slightly, to make it flat. He made another sound, but this time his lips were slightly parted, and it was clearer. And he grinned. "But the vending machine doesn't take bills anymore - just coins."

Ah... what? "Vending... machine?" I scowled, but it was my "What the hell are you on?" scowl, and not my "Oh, just feckin' **die**" scowl.

He nodded, and handed the dollar back. "They have jellybeans."

And that was when I realized that I was at a loss for words. Completely; utterly; totally.

Until I realized he'd taken advantage of my newfound stupidity and had crept closer. I had a fair idea what he meant to do.

"Don't hug me!" I spat out, and scooted backward, out of his range. He chuckled, and it was a soft and low sound and it was odd.

"Why not?"

Why not...?

You have cooties.

Bitch.

"Just don't." And this time, when I scowled, and it was my "Oh, just feckin' **die**" scowl, I wasn't looking at him. I was looking to the side, and I was looking past him.

We were quiet for a moment, again, and it looked like he wasn't going to try and hug me. But this time, it was his ceaseless smile that fucked me up.

I sighed. I dug my hand into my pocket and fished around for some loose coins. I came out with two quarters and a few dimes. Without bothering to count it, I shoved my hand out, towards him. He extended his hand, palm up, and I dropped the money into it.

"Will you leave me alone, now?"

He 'hm'd, smiled, counted the coins, gave back a dime, and said, "Maybe."

Before I could ask just with the flying fuck that meant, he'd risen and, without a backwards glance, left.

Off to get his fucking jellybeans, I suppose.

I guess some of the rumors were true.

Fye was feckin **weird**.

**-Stalk Me Not-**

**-END-**


	2. Ships That Sink

**Notes**: Not as fecking awesome as the 'prologue' - no, the chapter title DOESN'T mean anything - Ryu-Oh get's a happy little role, here, so 'ware the crappy characterization. I'm working on getting this a plot and a good chapter length. No music references just yet.

**Summary**: This is AU. Kurogane and Fye meet at college. Kurogane wonders what the _hell_ he did to deserve this. Let the stalking commence.

**Pairings**: Slight Kurogane and Fye.

**Rating**: T, for language, drug reference, violence and a Weapon of Mass Destruction.

**Disclaimer**: Yeah, still led astray.

**Stalk Me Not**

**1**

**Ships That Sink**

The recreation center had two stories. Large windows, reflecting the dull sunlight, and poplar trees crowding around it, as tall as the first floor. The sign above the main entrance was black with plain gold lettering. Inside was cool, as it was almost year round; during the winter the temperature outside was cold enough that it made the inside of the building seem warm. Every once in a while if it was really cold one of the jackass staffers at the reception desk would hijack the AC controls and turn it up. It was easy to figure out it was a secretary or office person because none of the instructors were that stupid. The temperature was set to a certain degree because the people in the classes were doing so much physical activity they didn't **need** their environment to be warm.

The only exception to the rule was the pool, and that had a separate heating system. Lucky bastards.

Today was one of those days when one of those fecking dipshits fucked with temperature controls. My god, do they teach you **nothing** in receptionist school? (If there **was** a receptionist school. I mean, there were schools for just about everything else. Like how to be a dumbass. These guys, they fucking **aced** it.)

I muttered angry obscenities as I taped up my knuckles, getting ready for my boxing class. My black tee was already getting a little clingy as I flexed my hands experimentally. I knew I would be dripping by the time my class was over. That was gross. It was life, but it was gross.

Either someone needed to strangle those assshats, or the system needed to be rewired to benefit **every**one.

I guess I wasn't alone in my hatred - a few of the other guys commented about the change in temperature. In fact, they commented vehemently.

I muttered hello to a few of them, the ones I knew in passing, and stashed my things in my locker, then left and entered the main room. A couple people were already there, and none of them looked very happy about the AC. I sighed and did my best to ignore it as I leaned against the wall, flexing each of my fingers in the wrapping, make sure it was fixed securely.

Hopefully someone dragged the prissy paper pushers out back and shot them. Fuckers.

--**smn**—

It was seven by the time I got back to the dorms. It had taken me fifteen minutes to walk from the bus stop to the campus; I rode the public transit because I refused to get a car, although I had my drivers license. I figured it was a good idea to **know** how to drive, even if I didn't - unlike some of these assholes who fished their licenses out of the boxes of their favorite cereal. Fecking dipwads.

It was that time of the year when it got dark early, and cold besides that. But I, with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder and scowl firmly in place, took my time, even though I was in nothing but a pair of worn jeans and a flimsy tee. The cold didn't quite get to me like the heat did.

The campus was quiet; only a few students were out and about, and those few were heading home or off to the dorms, anyway. Seven might have been early, but it was college, and everyone had papers and research and projects to do.

Oddly, I wasn't surprised when I saw none other than Fye sprawled out on one of the backless benches as I walked down a path between two buildings, unmoving and seemingly asleep.

He was wearing a long sleeved shirt under a tee, and neither looked very warm. His skin seemed so pale that looking at it I just **felt** cold, and his facial expression was held in a sort of grimace.

I couldn't tell **what** the fuck he was doing. Sleeping? Talking to the voices in his head? Contacting the mother ship? Like fuck I knew.

I walked past him like I didn't even notice his presence. As I walked away, though, I could feel eyes on my back, and I suppressed a shiver.

Something about Fye was really… _wrong_.

From his elastic smile to his deceptive eyes and his soft cooing noises and his fake laugh.

He was fake, fake, fake.

And it bothered me.

--**smn**--

When I got to my room, I noticed one thing.

My roommate was under his bed, and he seemed to be very stuck.

Scowling harder than before, I plopped my bag down by the door and crossed over to crouch down by his feet.

"And just what the fuck are you doing?" I growled, resting my forearms on my knees.

I could hear a muffled cough coming from somewhere under the bed. "Uh… Right now… I'm trying to get out…"

His left foot twitched feebly and I was half tempted to leave him to his own sick demise. But I guess that this situation was like watching an animal in a poacher's trap; you either shoot it or release it.

If I had a gun, I'd shoot this guy.

I shifted and placed both hands under the frame, testing to see if I could lift it without the entire bed falling apart. I could, and it all seemed safe; I told him to get ready to roll out and tipped the bed to the side, careful for any signs of it falling apart. Sometimes dorm beds were fucking cheap.

And out popped Ryu-Oh, in all his stupid, dirty, college freshman glory.

I glared down at him as he fastened an uneasy, near sheepish grin on his face. "Now tell me _what the fuck_ made you get under your goddamn bed?" I growled out slowly, letting the bed drop with a thud.

He opened his mouth, shut it, and blinked. Stupidly.

"Well. About an hour ago, I could have told you. But after I got stuck while I was trying to get out, I completely forgot."

"Oh, that so?"

**Gun**. **Hand**. _Now_.

He nodded. I refrained from strangling him and throwing his dead body out the window. But only just.

"Thanks for your help, though. I thought I would be stuck under that bed forever!"

Forever is a really long time. Asswhore.

"Man, it smelled down there, too."

I was tempted - **very** tempted - to stuff him back where he came from and leave him there this time. However I huffed, crossed over to my own bed and collapsed onto it - not from fatigue, I didn't have overly much of that, but more to get away from Ryu-Oh and his amazing Shit-For-Brains Acrobatics.

There was a thump, like a body hitting a hard surface, and I groaned and strained to merge my skull with my mattress.

Ryu-Oh strikes again.

THUMP.

And again.

It was a long time before I finally got to sleep.

And a long time before the thumping noises ceased.

The two had nothing to do with each other. (Sarcasm, bitch.)

--**smn**—

It was Nine by the time I woke up. Nine exactly, because I had set my alarm, and said alarm was lodged halfway in the wall by my head. It was lodged in the wall because I **put it there**, goddamnit, and I'd be damned before I tugged it back out. Plaster flaked off and dusted my sheet.

"Kurogane, you're going to have to PAY for those damages, you know." A groggy, sleep choked voice spoke up.

Ah, Ryu-Oh. Exactly what I DON'T want to hear in the morning.

"Shaddup, twit." I ground out from beyond a clenched jaw and a head full of cotton. Three months into the Fall Semester and I was amazed I hadn't hamstrung the boy yet.

Anything else he had to say was tuned out as I rose, tossed the covers aside, and shook the sleep out of my body. I stretched for a few moments, then grabbed a towel and change of clothing and headed out, hoping to catch a shower.

I was in luck, as at this time in the morning there were generally plenty of late comers who preferred to sleep in. But the showers were very near empty when I came in.

I undressed, showered, donned a black tee and black jeans, and realized I was hungry - but I was going to be late to my first class of the day if I stopped off at the cafeteria, which was in the opposite direction I would head to get to the History room. Usually I was never hungry in the morning, so this was never a problem, but today wasn't shaping up very well.

So far it looked like a rejected cookie cutter had attacked it whilst drunk off its ass.

I sighed in a rather disgruntled fashion as I walked back down the hall towards my room, absentmindedly drying off my hair along the way.

By the time I'd gotten to the doorway, I decided to just hit a vending machine for something quick along the way. I entered the dorm room, hung up my towel, ignored Ryu-Oh as he attempted to make a Weapon of Mass Destruction using only left-overs from something his mom had sent him a week or so ago (My God, it smelled foul) and a handful of sporks filched from the cafeteria, gathered up my work, stuffed my wallet in my back pocket, and left.

Just as I shut the door, I heard Ryu-Oh exclaim something eagerly, and something crashed to the floor. The rest of the cacophony was muffled through the door, and grew fainter as I moved away, quickly.

I seriously didn't now how the hell I lived with that kid for this long without snapping.

Maybe the boxing classes were helping, I don't know.

I stopped off on the second floor in front of a random machine and dug out my wallet, grabbing a few creased bills.

Then something circled around my neck, and all I could think was, _Since__when are octopi_ _LAND__animals!_

"Puppy!"

And it was **him**. Fye. Campus gossip himself, in the flesh, once again, and my god, when he said puppy, was he referring to **me**?

"What?" Most importantly, his arms were securely wrapped around my neck, proving to me that no octopus had suddenly grown legs and attacked me. I began to rethink this reassurance, though, as I tried to pry the blond off of me, failing in the first few attempts. Finally, though, I extracted him from my presence and turned to face him.

He smiled. And I hated that smile.

"Puppy."

"... I heard you. Are you call-"

He reached up and messed with my hair and it felt weird, like he was trying to rub static electricity into my scalp. It made me feel sleepy. I jerked away. "Stop that!" I scowled. "Are you calling me a **puppy**?"

And I don't know why I asked, because it was Fye and Fye was just the type of person **to** call me a dog. So why **did** I ask? ... **Why**?

Cause I was hoping to _God_ that I was wrong.

"Ahhh..." He near-crooned, with a half smile, half satisfied look on his face. "Yeah."

Oh. Damn.

"Well, don't."

"Ah, but, Puppy, why not?"

Because you're a manwhore!

"Because I don't want you to!"

Smile. "But puppies grow up into big doggies."

Scowl. "I don't care."

"Are you not a doggy?" He smiled and his eyes were clouded and I knew he wasn't quite there, but I had the feeling he was more lucid than he let on at the moment. "Are you a wolf, then?"

I grimaced. I scowled. I glared at his smiling, drowsy face. "Neither."

And then his smile seemed almost calculating for a moment and I didn't know if that made me feel better or not, because it proved he had more control over his brain than the entire campus actually thought; but it proved he was hiding something, and he was hiding it behind that smile.

"Then who are you?"

So this was his game?

"Kurogane."

Aw, shit, now I went and told him my fucking name. Next thing I know, he's going to ask me 'boxers or briefs?' (Gaygaygayagayagaygaygay**gay**.)

"Well, Kuro-poo," (_what_?) "don't you remember? The vending machine doesn't take dollar bills. You have to use change." While I was sputtering over his complete **massacre** of my name, he dug into one of his pockets and produced a handful of coins. Then he leaned around me, against me, saying, "I'm returning the favor!"

I broke out of my indignant little world in time to hear the sound of change going through the coin slot in the machine behind me. I twisted, and saw Fye's long, pale fingers punching three keys. He leaned down, brushing up against me more and more, and popped up, all smiles.

"Jelly Beans!"

And he brandished a small packet of a candy I suddenly hated with a passion.

"What... **What the _hell_ do you think you're doing**?" I yelled, loud enough to echo through the sparsely populated hallways - it figures that rooming with Ryu-Oh, Wannabe Mad-Scientist Extraordinaire, for three months, I'd finally snap when Fye, **Druggy** Extraordinaire, waved a package of Jelly Beans in front of my face. Did he mean for me to _eat_ those?

Fye opened the package while I yelled at him, and extracted two candies from it.

He looked up at me and smiled a smile that, had I been in my right mind, would have made me nervous as all Monkey Hell. "Kuro-nyan looks funny when he's angry!"

That did it. "**Stop calling me stupid fucking names yo**-"

I really shouldn't have even opened up my fecking mouth. Really. Cause that fucking crazy drug boy took the opportunity he'd created _on purpose_ to pop the candy into my mouth.

I promptly choked on it.

When I finally managed to get it down, I panted for a moment. Then.

"**What the _fuck_ is _fucking_ wrong with you you _fucking_ loopy bastard**? **You just tried to _fucking_ kill me**!" I reached for him, for his throat, but he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking, and had hopped back a little, out of range.

Thus began The Chase.

It was one of many Chases. This one... this one was just the first.

It was also the most aggravating, since it made me late for my History Lecture.

**-Ships That Sink-**

**-END-**

1. I want a beta. The only thing I require you to know front and back are tenses. Past, **past perfect**, etc.

2. Go read _I Dream of Kuropii_ by Hikari Kaitou. It's **HILARIOUS**. And makes me squirm.


	3. Go Home and Multiply

**Notes**: I think I've bastardized Kurogane and Fye - Kuro is eccentric and violent and brusque and Fye is calculating and he seems really angsty. There are at least two music references in this chapter. One is vague (the title).

**Summary**: This is AU. Kurogane and Fye meet at college. Kurogane wonders what the _hell_ he did to deserve this. Let the stalking commence.

**Pairings**: Slight Kurogane and Fye.

**Rating**: T, for language, violence and Elastaboy.

**Disclaimer**: God made me do it.

**Stalk Me Not**

**2**

**Go Home And Multiply**

Chasing Fye had been like chasing after his Royal Elastaboy Majesty himself (with a lot more swish and a lot less stretch); the utter bizarreness with which he armed himself while in the midst of running from my violence bent self was so blatant and downright **scary** I nearly stopped, stared, and let him get away.

Thankfully I had the presence of mind to ignore that certain aspect of him at the moment (shift it to the side, store it, think about it later - and don't forget to gape) and continue tearing up the sidewalk behind him (ten feet away, close, not close enough, just frustrating and serving to feed my anger bits and pieces of Napalm). They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but that's only because you realize what an flaming idiot you were **after** you got tossed into the AIDS Memorial Pond near the front entrance, courtesy of an abrupt stop of the one and only mental case with a fake smile and an ass load of rumors whizzing around campus like metal slugs on the beaches of Normandy.

When we collided, it was like a brief pause when we suddenly became one **thing** (more limbs than I'd care to count, and no poise to speak of whatsoever) but then it was over and we broke the surface of the pond, falling fast and as deep as was possible, separating sometime while under the water; I emerged first, taking a breath and taking a moment to shove my bangs out of my way before clumsily and slowly trudging to the edge and hoisting myself back onto dry land. Fye came up a second or three later, still smiling even as he mimicked my earlier actions and pulled back his own bangs while filling his lungs with previously deprived air.

He, however, remained stationary, watching me and smiling at me, before also getting out of the water (it fairly gushed from his pants and onto the grass beneath his feet), shaking a leg distractedly to rid it of excess water.

_Fye_ _is a skinny little fuck who runs too fast_, I decided as I vainly attempted to wring the water out of my clothing, all the while staring morosely at my papers; they were fairly swimming with the gods-be-damned liquid. I scowled, then, and my grip on my shirt tightened stiffly. I looked up, over, at Fye as he laid himself out (almost languid, right then) on a sun-soaked bench to my right, smiling, and I glared viciously.

He didn't know it, but I was plotting my revenge. (... Then again, maybe he did.)

I contemplated him for a moment, taking in everything: his wet hair, plastered to the stone beneath him, his closed eyes, his smile and his clothes (sucking against his body and revealing just how thin he was; just how much of him was legs and arms) and his boneless way of covering the entire bench. I looked at his feet (white and gray sneakers with mismatched laces, one lime green and the other dark blue - I almost laughed, then, but I was still angry). I looked at his hands (one was on his chest and the other was curled, knuckles brushing against the ground as the arm hung over the edge of the bench). I watched, motionless, as the sun almost reflected off his skin and into my face, and I watched his mouth, watched as the corners stayed upturned so consistently, like it was hardly any effort at all to smile.

No effort at all.

Which...

Which meant the bastard was entirely too pleased with the outcome of recent events (the chase, the crash, the fall).

Which...

Which meant I was going to have to smack tha' smile off the foo'.

Before I could take a step in his direction, though, he opened his eyes (sleepy and lazy and all but precise and smirking), murmuring, "Don't you have a class to get to?"

And I knew that the expression on my face was something I would not be proud of later, when it was brought up again, but at that very moment, I couldn't give a shit. With less grace than I would have liked (and more alacrity on Fye's part than I deemed necessary), I scrambled to snatch up my still dripping papers (pointedly ignoring how fucking wet they were) and turned abruptly, ready to shoot off across the campus in an attempt to catch the last of my lecture.

"Hey!" He called from behind me before I could get far at all, and I paused, glancing back in time to pivot and catch the object that was unceremoniously lobbed at me. I looked at him and he smirked, saying, "Have some jelly beans."

I looked down at what I held in my fist and sure enough the fuckers that started this were there, the bag crinkled and... wet; my eyes darted back up to him and I glowered.

I wanted to slap him. I think he knew it, too, because his smirk turned into this horrible smile that showed a little teeth (but this time I think I saw his eyes brighten for a moment or two, so maybe it wasn't that awful) that gave me the feeling that I was just some great game of his.

"Stay here," I spat out and I started off at a much more sedated pace than before, "I'll kill you when I get back."

And I meant it.

I really, really meant it.

And he probably knew that, too; I was beginning to think he knew everything.

--**smn**--

I had a headache.

I'd been able to slip into the back of the lecture hall almost unnoticed (a few people stared at me until I pointed a nicely formed "Fuck OFF" glare at them) and pushed all thoughts (very angry, very bloody, very my-fist-in-his-gut thoughts) of Fye away, paying attention to Professor Lumbrinch and trying to commit everything to memory, as I had no dry paper on which I could take notes. After an excruciatingly long expanse of time, there I was, making my way to the front of the room to talk to the Professor, and I had a headache that could rear back and stomp down on Texas.

He saw me approaching and waited at his desk, shifting through papers, and he looked a bit resigned. After a thought, I wouldn't blame him - I probably looked like I was up to no good (I was wet, scowling, and more than six feet tall; at the very least, I was intimidating). I cleared my throat and stopped half a foot to the left of him, not sure how I was going to go about this.

It would take tact. It would take glib skill. It would take-

"Some asshole dunked me in the AIDS Memorial Pond at the front entrance and fucked up my work," I lifted my arm, dangling the sorry looking aforementioned papers (it was more like mulch, now, and completely beyond useless), "Is it at all possible to get an extension on them? Even a day would work."

Yeah, _or not_. (Good going, me; thought about improving your already _superb_ communicative skill lately?)

Lumbrinch blinked owlishly at me, then slid his gaze down, all the way to the soggy mess in my hand. I adopted a stricken expression and decided to NOT look at him or open my mouth again until I could keep myself from saying such mutinous bullshit. I stared at the wall, past him, but I could feel it as he looked back up at me.

He then looked back down at the ruined papers, and it was all I could do not to affect one of those "What the fuck is he _doing_?" faces.

After a long pause (moments piled upon moments of awkward silence and awkward, nervous movements) he nodded minutely and said, "Okay. I'll give you two extra days. Hand it in at the beginning of class on Friday."

I blinked. (Score.)

I nodded. (All in all, that went better than I had thought it would.)

I said thank you and turned to leave. (And then I fucked up again.)

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go kill someone."

I froze, and he froze, and a chunk of near-melted paper detached itself from the mother ship and plopped on the floor with an odd squishing noise. I rotated, slowly, on one foot, and stared at him, blankly, while my brain thought of something to say, and my mouth jumped the gun once more, alternatively saving me and _really_ pissing me off.

"I meant kiss."

He smiled, and it looked partly nervous, partly amused, and somewhat condescending, but I took what I could get and hightailed it out of there.

It was the first time in my entire life that I _really_ wanted to sock myself in the mouth.

--**smn­**--

I almost didn't go back to the bench - I didn't actually think Fye would heed me and _stay_ when it was clear that as soon as I got back, I was going to bash his face in. No one sane would, anyway.

But I did, and when I saw him there, curled up on his chosen throne of sun-warmed stone, I had irrevocable **proof** that the guy had gone one too many times around the block without the proper headgear.

I paused, considered my options, and reveled in the intense desire to simply walk up to the sleeping blond and kick in his rib cage. (Then a small part of me suggested this scene to be a trap, and all thoughts of mutilation were put on the back burner for the moment.)

I approached him cautiously, keeping my eyes carefully trained on Fye's prone body, occasionally darting around to check for signs of ambush.

When I made it to his side without event, I experienced another all consuming urge to just _punch_ myself. (When had I ever been so damn paranoid?) Then I felt like punching _Fye_. (It was all his _fault_ anyway, damnit.) I settled for punching no one (but I _did _glare at a few passing students, who seemed to quicken their pace and avert their gaze) and was decidedly at a bit of a loss as to what to do.

Fye was, as observed previously, sleeping.

That wasn't _allowed_, though - not when I was supposed to beat him into the ground (and hopefully to within an inch of his life - or maybe within centimeters).

So I scowled at him, unhappy, and willed him awake.

The jerk slept on, obliviously, and happily, and it was really pissing me off. I was very tempted to push the fucker off the bench, but I refrained (for the moment) and sat heavily on the ground with both Fye and the bench at my back. I scowled and rubbed at my temple, right where my headache was kicking my ass like Jet Li against a mob of angry ninjas.

See me sit. See me brood. Brood, me, brood! **FUCK**.

The sun was shining (it was saying 'fuck you') and the grass was a vibrant shade of green (it was laughing at me) and I... I was _not_ a happy camper.

I was not ...a happy camper.

I...

"Hello."

...**Was ambushed by the high priest Cthulhu**.

Before I had time to defend myself, a long arm draped itself over my shoulder and down my chest, boneless and careless, and somewhat girly. It was also rather damp.

Fye had awoken.

...Good. Now I could beat the snot out of him. All honorable-like.

However, before I could do just that, he spoke again, close to my ear, and quiet.

"Are you hungry?"

Who the fucking what? How did that have anything to do with my fist versus his face?

His hand curled and scratched my abdomen (just before my ribcage ended and through my shirt that was quickly drying in the relative heat) to get my attention.

I blinked and angled my face to look at him. "What?"

The fuck?

"Are you hungry," he repeated, then pushed on, explaining, "It's just about noon, I think; if we hurry we can beat the crowds."

Once more, the fuck?

And then my expression (generally a lost on at that moment, I think) clued him in that I had _no_ idea what he was referring to. And the bastard smiled.

"I'm going to buy you lunch."

I don't think so, you jerk.

"No." My hardest glare, my firmest voice, my darkest tone.

"Yes." His smile, his clouded eyes, his amused inflection.

"No."

"Yes."

"**No**."

For a moment, there was no response, though he was still smiling.

And I thought I had won (and could therefore continue onto my original plan of thrashing the fuck out of him).

Ha. I reign supreme--

"Yes." He moved, sliding down, swinging, aiming for...

**My lap**.

"Geh!" I made an odd and muffled and indistinct noise as I pried him off of me and stood abruptly, tripping over the bench that I had forgotten about. I landed on the other side, my back making a hollow thud as it hit the ground. Fye wasn't far behind, peering over the stone seat and at me, and I knew he wasn't above 'kicking a man while he's down' (that is, sitting on me or something equally undesirable) so I rolled and made to get up - Fye was quick, though, and had his arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

"I'm going to buy you lunch!" He tugged me back, towards him.

"No you're not, you freak!" I clawed in an almost desperate manner at his arms.

"Yes I am!"

"**_No you are not_**, **_goddamnit_**. **_Now let go of me_**." As much as I fought against his grip, though, he refused to relent.

"I am not letting go of you until you agree to let me buy you lunch!" And as he held fast and as he said that, I was ready to rebuke him once more.

And he was ready to hang on for dear life.

The entire time, we steadfastly ignored the people that shot us odd looks as they passed by.

--**smn**--

Sitting across from Fye in a booth as we waited for our orders, I could only think, _"I reign supreme" - ha, right; in my own damn mind._

Fye, for his part, smiled, and I knew he was pleased, and I knew he knew I was irritated (but resigned) and, above all this, I knew he was _amused_ by that. It was all there, on his face, if one knew where and how to look, but it seemed to me no one did.

The more I got to know Fye, the less he seemed to be as clean and cut as 'a druggy with a past.' The more I saw, the less I liked. The more he said, the less I trusted him. It was to the point where I didn't know if he was playing me, or if he was playing everyone else.

Or even worse.

What if he was playing himself?

Someone stopped at our table, called my name. I blinked, and looked up, and a girl from class was there (someone whom I could honestly say I _liked_, if nothing else), looking at me, an eyebrow raised. I was afflicted with a blank resent at that moment, though, so when she asked me what I was doing, and who Fye was, I had little (and less) to say; Fye, however, had no such problem, and answered for me.

"We're on a date." And he was smiling in a beguiling manner, and the girl was wide eyed and skeptical, and I had my hand around my glass of water, and I did what came natural in that moment.

I reached over and dumped its entire contents over Fye's head (which had completely dried only fifteen minutes beforehand).

My classmate gaped and Fye continued to smile, unperturbed, and I glared (and wondered just what was wrong in Fye's head). Then, without missing a beat, in that gratingly fake little bright tone of voice.

"Sharing is caring!"

Caring is creepy.

**-Go Home And Multiply-**

**-END-**

1. I want a Beta. Beta Beta Beta. You only need to know two things; past and **past perfect **tense. But you have to know them WELL.

2. So, any catch those music references?


	4. The War of Even Tide

**Notes**: OMG HI. I'm struggling to continue this, and the plot has been revamped so totally in only barely resembles what the original intent behind all this was. I'm totally bastardizing their personalities. Now with twenty-percent more crack and seventy-two percent less angst. I want a Beta.

**Summary**: This is AU. Kurogane and Fye meet at college.

**Pairings**: Slight Kurogane and Fye so far, with Fye being the more obvious.

**Rating**: T, for language, violence and attempted feeding of the Kurogane. Add in some misapplication of Latin and we might just have to up this to M.

**Disclaimer**: (insert here)

**Stalk Me Not**

**3**

**The War of Even Tide**

One drenched stalker and a battle to save the world (id est my personal space bubble) later, I was safely barricaded behind the worryingly feeble wood that was my dorm room door in the company of the only freshman who could _possibly_ get stuck between a desk and a wall.

Really. I _don't know_ how he managed to squeeze into that tiny little space--or, in fact, _any_ of the small spaces he wiggled into since he always managed to be already _stuck_ by the time I got there and suffering from spontaneous short term _fucking_ amnesia (and when he folded himself into the dryers in the girls dorm six weeks after the semester started he officially endeared himself to half the female population--the remaining half tended to treat him like one would the Black Death; with extreme caution and no small amount of disgust).

I ignored him for fifteen whole minutes, preferring to slam around the room, grumble under my breath, and strangle imaginary enemies.

Fye had tried to _feed me_.

**Feed **me.

After I finally managed to explain to the girl—Souma—that I'd been kidnapped against my will by the flaky bastard sitting on the other side of the table (and it didn't look like she believed me—probably had something to do with Fye sending her funky smiles, interrupting me every three seconds to 'correct' me _('Kuro-nan, I didn't threaten the livelihood of your family—nor did I give you any illegal substance without your knowing; you came very willingly—' '**DID NOT**.' '—after I finally talked you into letting me buy you lunch.') _and generally being freakishly friendly) she'd made up an excuse, traipsing off and leaving me to the keeping of the modern day Mephistopheles drenched in fucking mockery. And my water.

Just to punch the point, I'd tore open a packet of Sweet'N'Low and emptied the contents over his head as well and all he did was fucking _smile_. (But then, at least, his hair was sticky—pettiness can be an art form, sometimes.)

Once the waitress had finally, hesitantly, gotten the nerve to approach us once again to deliver our orders (I was practically growling my ABC's and Fye had just been egging me on until I sounded like a deranged canine/turbine engine and the booths within a five foot radius of us had been cleared out) there had been a slight scuffle between us­—which then evolved into me refusing to eat and him scooching in on my side of the booth and riling me up as he calmly diced the food on my plate.

(_I know what you're doing Fye, I know, and you're not winning—_or so I thought, but when he finally started making those sick, cooing noises at me again, I—)

Had two choices; chew and swallow or spit it out in his face. The former was fucking childish—I might have been pissed as hell, but I was above throwing tantrums. The world had had enough of my terrible fuckin' twos, and though Fye was quickly reviving that period, I would resist for the sake of humanity and the public at large (though Lord knows the public at large didn't reciprocate that regard).

Once I'd reclaimed my twice damned fork, battled him back to _his_ side of the booth and begun to take antagonized bites out of my steak omelet (_half hoping it was infected with cholera_—) Fye'd once again begun making strange noises at me, coupled with everything else that was annoying about him and a socked foot (somehow bereft of its shoe) pressed warm against my fucking leg (—_and then more than half hoping Fye's soup was swimming with Ebola and his salad laced with anti-freeze_).

I was starting to think that either some kind of permanent damage had been dealt out to his brain at an early age or he was a straight up _flamer_, and had decided that _Kuro-mu_ _would make _**ever**_such_ _a nice boyfriend!_

And he'll _squeeze_ me and _hug_ me and _love _me and call me his own (never mind my screams of torturous agony or vehement threats of extreme body mutilation). He'll suck the life out of me.

If I let him.

I stilled in the midst of beating in imaginary-Fye's head (feckin' freaky flirty fuck) with an equally imagined dirt devil.

A plan was forming in my head. A good plan. A GREAT plan.

Because of that jelly-brained, psycho somethingist with a penchant for _feeding_ people, I had to rewrite TWO reports sans any references (since I couldn't very well risk leaving the relative safety of my room and have him fucking things up again or following me around or fucking feeding me or _clinging to me_, the little parasite). I had two days.

It was time for operation "Hide Like A Six-Year-Old Girl."

I cut a glare at the kid as he attempted to hide himself as best he could, being pinned as he was.

First I would have to fish Ryu-Oh out of the thick swamp that was his own stupidity once again.

--**smn**--

I shouldn't have bothered.

I just should have left the fuck-twit where he was and finally alerted the authorities once he was dead.

Hell, I should have stuffed him back into those dryers he seemed to exorbitantly fond of.

"Ryu-oh. Stop it."

The bastard was in his own little world of 'OMF, I'M GENIUS' (which translated into "OH MY FUCK, I'M AN RETARD") as he fiddled with a host of (really, seriously, STOLEN) objects at his desk. I was sitting cross legged on my bed, papers and notes and research spread out before me in all their nauseous glory as I attempted to reconstruct my essays. It wasn't working (at ALL) and so far I had one paragraph I didn't like and a headache I despised with all my ickle being.

I'd gotten that paragraph in just before he settled down to start on his newest project, which involved what looked to be someone's fake Rolex, a laser pointer, a mechanical pencil (MINE, goddamnit), and three or four colored paper clips. Not only did the sound of springs and cogs and wheels getting scattered around annoy me a great deal, but the fact that Ryu-oh had to freaking LAUGH (read: giggle like a flippin' _love sick _**girl**) while doing this was irritating all the way to the very marrow in my bones.

"RYU-OH."

He just sniggered, ignored me, and a spring launched itself at the wall to his left, bouncing off harmlessly.

All right.

That's it.

In the name of the **moon** I shall fucking kick your ass.

With as much force as I could manage, I launched the heaviest thing I could get my hands on. (Which, to my pleasure, happened to be my Calculus For Retards text.)

It was poetry in motion, watching that sick excuse for a book sail through the air on a direct collision course with Ryu-Oh's sick excuse for a head.

My attack connected, and, as much as I would enjoy saying he went down for the count, that's not what happened—it is, indeed, very, very far from the truth. Enter the sound of mulched tree against a skull housing a scrambled brain; of Ryu-Oh, clattering as he overturned his chair and met the floor, SOMEHOW TAKING EVERYTHING, EVEN THE DESK, WITH HIM.

Enter Ryu-Oh; bug fuck insane and now upgraded to being pinned between the desk and the floor.

I'd finally been privy to one of Ryu-Oh's ever elusive fuck ups that got him crammed into a tiny cranny no human being under the age of seven should rightfully be able to crawl into; though, in all fairness, it was a desk, and the desk had _fallen_ on him, no sliding, scrabbling, squirming, worming or wriggling required on his part (and it had been my fault, anyway—so with all that in mind, I guess it didn't count).

I figured it was safe to continue with my madcap writing, at least until I got another page or two in.

"_Kuro_…_Kurogane_…" He was shuddering for breath and wheezing my name, but there wasn't a chance in hell I'd pass up this chance to get some work done. "_Can't… breathe…_"

Aw, fuck. The guy was annoying as hell, had the mental capacity of a retarded sea snail and fancied himself a genius scientist on the brink of discovering a cure for the color _mauve_, but he was a good kid and only had the best intentions (…sometimes). And he was _blue_ in the fucking _face_.

Slamming my shit down and hauling my ass up, I schlepped my ass over to the prone freshman and glared down.

And slowly, so as to ground the point into his soup-of-a-brain.

"I'm going to help you in about eight fucking seconds, but for me to do that, you're going to promise me…"

--**smn**--

And five minutes later, I had the fucking room to myself.

**Finally**.

No thumping, humping, laughing, cackling, pinging, shuffling, mumbling—no nothing.

It was glorious.

By the time my eyes started to burn and nine had rolled around—still with no Ryu-Oh, as we had agreed upon—I was well into the revision of my first essay. Having an attention span greater than that of damn corpse really paid off, I decided.

And at ten I yawned and stretched and filed away the finished essay; and I clicked the light off, burrowing into my covers, burrowing against the world and all the crap it insisted on throwing at me one nerve wracking disaster at a time.

--**smn**--

And here I was, thinking my life was complete. (Apparently it really was—completely fucked up.)

I'd written the second paper.

I'd revised it.

I'd then frolicked all the way down to the fucking resource center to type them into a twelve point font double spaced fucking format, gotten back to my dorm without incident (barring the worrisome sighting of Fye chatting it up with a young girl, probably in Ryu-Oh's year and all sun and earnest smiles—and she probably didn't know it yet, but had been targeted as his next victim) and had an entire day and a half to spare.

Then Ryu-Oh laid the smack down only he could provide upon those freshly printed papers.

Maybe it was that laser pointer (or what resembled a laser pointer, what with all the paper clips and miscellany spiking threateningly out of it) he'd been fiddling with ever since he came ambling back into the room sometime just before noon, right as I gathered up my crap to leg it down to the Center—maybe he'd aimed it out the window at some point, after I'd come back and left again to retrieve a wrapped sandwich and bottle of water from the MP room (hauling paranoid ass the entire time), leaving my papers stacked neatly on the corner of my desk and largely unattended to—maybe the beam had passed through the window, been amplified threefold, bounced off sixteen different fucking wind chimes, then looped back around just to be a vindictive bitch and zeroed in on my lovingly crafted (for the second **fucking** time) history papers, notes, rough drafts, revisions, research—everything. And maybe not.

Maybe the fucker just spilled soda and chocolate pudding all over them, then vacated the scene of the crime all weasel-like.

Yeah, maybe that was it, _because that was sure as _**fuck** _what it looked like._

Breathe.

(_Those aren't my papers, those aren't my newly written papers, the ones I just risked my ass and sanity to type up yesterday, those aren't the papers I spent six hours solid writing—**each**—)_

Just… breathe.

(_I'm in the wrong room—can't be, Ryu-Oh's the only creature in the universe who can stomach his soda-pudding mix… I've slipped into an alternate dimension—please, God, let this one be void of Fye… I… breaking down… can't rationalize… five… four… three… two… my life **sucks**—_)

"BREATHE, DAMNIT."

One brain aneurism later, I dropped my water and sandwich simultaneously (_thud plunk_) and slowly approached the remains of what were (surely) my papers I'd seen alive and well not thirteen minutes ago.

Evidently, I've been praying to the wrong Gods my entire life.

--**smn**--

Two re-_re_written papers; check.

A vow to ban Ryu-Oh from my _life_; double check.

The second trip down to the Resource Center; regrettable and more than slightly queer—in all senses of the word.

There I was, typing madly at one of the more secluded computers on the dimly lit basement floor; I was aiming for the completion of both papers before I was, say, struck down by lightening, or, in a spiteful act of self-immolation, the computer imploded.

Both were entirely possible at this point.

I almost didn't notice it; the touch, the light ghosting of something only vaguely warm, up against my leg, trailing over my jeans. If I hadn't paused in my breakneck typing to curse angrily at anything that came to mind for the sixteenth time, I wouldn't have caught it all—but I did, and when it returned a second time, I was waiting for it, ready.

The third time, and it was oddly familiar.

Fifth; more substantial, and, GOD, I knew who it was.

Sixth; getting higher.

Seventh; too high for comfort—I smacked the hand away, resumed typing. I was faster now. It was a speed borne of desperation.

Eighth—ninth—tenth; smacked away again.

Eleven stabilized it all—the touches got no higher and there was a warm pressure all up my right leg—for about fifteen minutes.

And then **El Diablo** was inching up my leg again second by second, lazy smile stretch wide and far.

_Definitely_ the wrong Gods.

**-The War of Even Tide-**

**-END-**

1. I **really** want a **BETA**. I will continue to whine about this until I get one. The only thing I require you to know front and back are tenses. Past, **past perfect**, etc.

2. I have a Philosophy paper to write, a month to do it, and a knack for procrastinating like you wouldn't believe. So I will be busy writing that paper early IF IT KILLS ME and this story might not see an update until **November**. Knowing me I'll end up blowing off the paper and writing the next chapter for this JUST to spite myself.

3. Thank you. Everyone. You didn't deserve that year hiatus I had on this story. You guys are so perfectly awesome. Sorry that I don't reply to your reviews but the reply feature is intimidating and used as little as possible. (PS: Name that lyric. Still going on.)


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